i barely love you too
by avaire
Summary: Lillian plays the field, and the field plays her back. What's love? Who's the middleman? Drabbles, multi-characters. Lillian x ?
1. summer i

Her first impression of him goes like this:

Red cap, red coat, white shirt, black pants—no. Pantaloons. Bare calves and downy blonde hairs leading to worn shoes. Smile, both smooth to the touch and rough around the edges; crinkle by green eyes, like a Granny Smith apple buried in fresh snow.

"Yo!"

He says "yo." _Who says that? _It falls out of his mouth, slips between chapped lips, and does a jig in the air. She hasn't heard the word in a quarter of a year, and she has to shake her head, smile in place.

She introduces herself as "Lillian. So nice to meet you." Courtesies, all of them, use them for the strangers and turn-of-the-century friends, bought with sweet words and gifts, loads of gifts. Gifts aplenty, gifts galore. She wonders what Dirk likes best. Judging from that feather in his cap…chocolate dipped bananas?

He invites her to hang out sometimes (or always). She agrees because it's polite. She agrees because she could always use another friend her age. Howard hardly counts as "her age" or "friend," but she'd be lying if she said his cooking wasn't top notch. Grade A. Delicious.

Pauses…too many pauses! She stares at his sleeves, rolled up to his elbows, then catches his eye. He raises a pair of thick eyebrows. The moment gets awkward, and Dirk says he's gotta go deliver isolated villagers' small orders and big dreams. "See you around."

Lillian watches him trot off, looking more than a little like Prince on good days. Except Dirk doesn't neigh, doesn't eat McIntoshes like a maniac, and doesn't require a constant stream of affection in high pitched baby words.

"Enough already," she says after his fifth warm-breathed nudge. She turns both her hands skyward. They are empty save for the dirt lining the creases of her palms, and Prince snorts in dignified disgust.

"Can't please everyone, darling." Lillian brushes the hint of dust off her shoulders and clambers atop her steed, valiant and hungry. "Let's go fishing!"

* * *

_a/n: I wanted to get back into the swing o' writing, and I honestly have no idea in what direction I'm going with this. Let the games begin. Yeeehawwww! _


	2. summer ii

Bluebell is a beautiful place, and whoever says otherwise deserves a swift kick to the butt.

Like wrinkly old Rutger, sweet Rose, and Cam, Lillian prizes the village's flowers above all else. Their reds and blues splatter the lush orange canvas set by the sun. They even smell the way flowers are supposed to: fragrant, just as her childhood storybooks and adolescent fantasy novels described them.

She visits Jessica's first. The woman is about to close shop, but the girl asks for some chicken feed.

"Of course! How much would you like to buy?"

"The cart's pretty heavy today, so maybe…five pounds?"

"I'm sure Prince can handle at least seven."

"Make it seven, please!"

They exchange laughter. Business is business, and chickens need to eat. As Cheryl stacks the sacks in Lillian's arms, Jessica titters and calls, "Ash, get in here! Help a customer out, won't you?"

"Okay, Ma!"

Over bouncing pigtails and red ribbons, one abashed farmer looks at another farmer, also abashed. Ash grabs the sacks from his little sister's hands. "C'mon."

Leaving a pouting Cheryl behind, the two exit the store and stock the goods in Lillian's new caravan. Lots of shifting, lots of puzzling over whether it's safe to pile crabs on top of eels on top of smelt.

"I don't want to start any fights, you know?"

"You should really put the fish in the fridge, Lillian."

Yeah. She pushes a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "Good advice, Ash. Good advice."

"No problem. If you ever need other tips, especially on farming, feel free to ask. I'm here to help."

"That's sweet of you, Ash." She sticks her arm back into the cart and grabs a container sitting beneath a jar of walnuts. "Would you like some scones?"

"Wow, you baked them yourself?"

"Yep."

"Thank you!"

Lillian watches him accept them with a tip of his cap. It's plaid and reddish and matches his kerchief. Her gaze slips to his pant—aloons. He wears brown stockings, like a German aristocrat posing in an eighteenth century oil painting.

"Well, I've got to buy some flower seeds from your BFF," she says.

"BFF? Oh, you mean Cam." Ash's face brightens, blue eyes round. "Tell him I said hello."

"I will." She walks away with a wave. "See you tomorrow."

"Good bye."


	3. summer iii

Cam has roses for sale. They stand proudly, thorned and tall.

Lillian strokes their petals, flushed and timid. Reserved. Like their master in a flowery form.

"Would you like one?" he asks, lazy gaze following her lazy fingers.

"How much?"

"600 each."

She chews on her bottom lip (dry!) and does some mental math. "I'll buy two."

"Great. Pick and choose."

She plucks two from the glass vase randomly. They're all beautiful, no matter their individual imperfections, their rosey bumps and bruises.

"Thank you, Lillian. Come again soon."

"I'm not going yet."

"Do you need to buy something else?"

"Just your affection. Here." She hands him one of the roses in her hand. It's spiky against her fingertips, and she is happy to let it go.

Cam furrows his brows. "What's the meaning of this?"

"I thought you'd like it."

"I do."

"Good." She smiles and shouts at Laney walking by. "Hey!"

The blond, summertime sweetheart, waves back. "How are you, Lillian?"

"Great! And you?"

"Well, thanks! Come by the cafe sometime! Dad made chocolate pudding."

"Sounds good."

When she turns back around, Cam's still staring at her, a long-lashed green and checkered violet vision. Cheeks pink.

"You look like a carnation, Cam." Carnation Cam. Hahaha. Funny. Not that she'd laugh. Does he laugh?

He doesn't, smiles instead. "Yeah, thanks, I guess."

* * *

_a/n: This one was inspired by something I did. I bought a rose from Cam then gave it right back to him thinking it'd elicit some sort of special reaction. It didn't._


End file.
